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The Wolf and the Wyrm
The Wolf and the Wyrm is the first encounter in The Savage North, though it is optional. Enemies Transcript Introduction You press your shield against the rock, touching the blue dragon to the stone that seals the end of the tunnel. When nothing happens, when the rock remains unmoved by the offering and steadfast in its solidity, you feel a surge of hope run its way up your spine. Perhaps fate's finally turned away from you, grown sick of toying with you. Maybe at last your path, your life, your existence will become something other than a mournful shadow of- Then the beam of light burns itself into being, sears its way across your vision. As its twin did back in Caelnam, it splits the stone in two like the luminous stroke of an invisible blade. The rock shudders. A grinding noise reverberates around the passage, made louder and more insistent this time by the close confines. The draconic doorway opens, its great halves parting to reveal daylight in all its bright glory -- along with a white, crisp mantle that stretches away in unmarred brilliance before forming a ridge a few dozen paces ahead. A little shower of snow cascades from above to complete the vista, displaced and dislodged by the sudden movement of the stone after generations of stagnation. You step out onto the whiteness, the soft snow crunching and compacting beneath your boots. After so long away from the sunlight, it's as if you're walking into infinity -- treading the face of an impossible vastness that might roll on for all eternity. But a quick glance around you reveals that you're in the middle of a wide valley, encircled on three distant sides by imposing snow-capped mountains. Cold, clean air flows over you, so fresh and pure after your underground odyssey that it tastes like a delicate wine. You all fill your lungs with glee -- like children assaulting trays of sweetmeats at a banquet. Only Rakshara seems perturbed. She smacks her lips and frowns, as though trying to identify a strange flavor. "You've never been on the surface before?" you ask. The orange oroc shakes her head. "No. The air here is... different." Perhaps it's her talk of strangeness, or else the euphoria of fresh air has relinquished its hold on you. Either way, you begin to realize that you're somewhat cold. Very cold, in fact... By mutual consent you fall back into the tunnel, unshoulder your packs, and start excavating the furs and other warm garments you packed for Nordent. Light clothing served you well in subterranean tunnels and magma-filled caverns, but it's rather less practical in the tundra -- at least if you don't feel inclined to sacrifice your extremities to frostbite. Tessa looks to Rakshara. "I may be able to stitch something together large enough to fit you." Hugh makes frantic gestures behind the oroc and shakes his head with such force you fear his neck might snap. Tessa rolls her eyes. "Thank you, but I have no need of clothing. The cold doesn't affect my body." Hugh punches the air. Then Rakshara moves away, and Tessa takes the opportunity to punch Hugh. A few minutes later you're back on the snow, Rakshara almost naked but the rest of you wrapped in as much insulation as you can manage without hampering your ability to wield weapons. "Well, we're here..." Hugh says. "A marvelous observation," Brachus replies. "Remarkably useless, but still entirely accurate." "Ha, bloody ha. Like I was going to say before that jester stole my mouth, what do we do now? Nordent's a sodding big place." "Are you in the mood to climb mountains?" Tessa asks. "Course I'm bloody not." "Then we're going this way." She indicates a little hillock up ahead, where the snow forms a soft, miniature imitation of the distant mountains. A far more palatable climb. "We'll see where the path takes us," you say. "As soon as we find a village, or even a traveler who might have news-" The rest of your plan dies on your lips when the screaming starts. You reach the top of the snowy rise at the same moment as Tessa, both of you pressed low against the ground -- enduring the chill in the name of stealth. A man's running across the snow, moving in a half-sprint, half-stagger born of desperation and injury. Two arrows protrude from his flank, each wound spurting blood that paints the ground in his wake. There are others behind him, a band of men and women dressed in the spangenhelms and hauberks of Nord warriors. Some carry shields emblazed with the image of a wolf's head in profile. "The Bold Wolf Clan," Tessa murmurs. From the look of them, they've been pursuing the man for some time. There's weariness in their movements, the signs of hard running in the heaving of their chests. But they're walking now. Their quarry can't outrun them, not with his pace ruined by the shafts in his flesh. One of them holds a bow, the orchestrator of the man's doom. But he hasn't even notched a fresh arrow to his string. Instead he grasps a shortsword in his other hand. The others hold swords or spears as well, ready to finish the job when they deign to do so. Indecision burns in your breast. You know nothing of these people or what events may have transpired to bring about this brutal pursuit. For all you know the man they chase is a criminal, a fugitive hunted for whatever dark deeds he's wrought upon his tribe or another. It isn't in your place to intervene... The man's eyes meet yours. His frantic gaze, which darted here and there like that of an animal in search of escape, picks you out in your hiding place and pierces you with the full force of his anguish. Then he collapses in the snow, sinks into the gentile whiteness and reddens it. You jump to your feet and spring down the slope. Behind you Tessa whistles to the others. A chorus of surprise and anger comes from the Nord warriors. They quicken their pace, plant their bodies between you and their quarry. "What do you want here, southlander?" one of them barks. The word catches you by surprise. But your garb isn't that of a native. Where else would a Nord expect an outsider to come from than the southern provinces? "Who is that man?" you ask, ignoring his question but fastening your gaze on him as their presumed leader. Why did you hunt him?" Another of the Nords shouts something. Her words are meaningless -- spoken in their native tongue. But whatever she said makes their leader's eyes narrow. "Show me your sign," he says. "What?" you turn one ear towards him, sensing that feigned deafness will serve you better than genuine ignorance. "The king's sign!" the Nord says, raising his voice. "In the name of King Crenus and Chieftain Kveldulf, all southlanders not wearing the gold dragon must present their sign!" You nod and reach towards the pouch at your belt. It happens to rest by your scabbard... An arrow takes the Nord bowman an instant before your sword flashes in the cold, crisp light and the shouting starts. Conclusion “Traitor!” The Nord spits the word and his blood in the same moment. Crimson splashes down his chin and hauberk until it meets the gaping redness in the middle of his chest like a river finding the sea. He topples into the snow, lending his veins to its new hue. Tessa is already kneeling at their quarry’s side when you reach him. She gazes up at you and shakes her head. A single glance at his wounds tells you the same. There’s nothing you can do for him. His gaze leaves her face and falls on yours in turn. Then it descends, and his eyes widen. He splutters, reaches out with a weak, clawing hand. The suddenness of the movement startles you. He’s groping for your shield… You drop to your knees next to him, opposite Tessa, and put it within his reach. He presses his palm against the Kasan crest, stares at it with the frightening intensity of departing life. “The blue wyrm watches…” he whispers. His eyes dart away from the dragon and fix their gaze on yours with the same firm earnestness. His hand pulls away from the shield. He thrusts its index finger to the north. “The blue wyrm watches!” He cries the words, mustering all the breath from his failing lungs, expelling them alongside his soul. Then his eyes glaze over. Something writhes in the pit of your stomach. Another thread… One more insult, one more mockery from fate and the gods. The others have gathered round. You can feel the weight of their stares on your back, adding to the crushing mass of inevitability. “The Frost Wyrm Clan,” Tessa says. “They’ve risen up against the king?” “It wouldn’t be the first time,” you murmur. Of all the Nord tribes, all the inhabitants you might have encountered in this vast tundra land… Of course it would be them. Because your life doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to fate, and the gods… And the Dragon-Rider. You stifle the sigh that builds in your chest. Not in front of the others… Instead you stand, and turn so you can face all of your companions. “If the Frost Wyrm Clan are against Crenus, they’re the ones we need to seek.” You turn to the north, where the dead man pointed. Another life ended and turned into nothing more than a signpost on the road to your destiny… And still you go on, trudging through the snow towards whatever lies beyond. Category:The Savage North